The Night Before Christmas
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya's surveillance of the house belonging to a high ranking THRUSH official doesn't go as planned.


There were many things Illya Kuryakin could have been doing on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. He could have been in a jazz club, or at home reading a scientific journal, or even doing Napoleon's paper work. All of these would have meant warmth at least. Instead, the Russian was hiding amongst a clump of snow-laden trees, staking-out the house of a known THRUSH head. He usually didn't allow the cold to bother him, but he'd remembered too late that his partner had borrowed his gloves. His hands were pushed deep into his pockets, but it didn't ease the gnawing pain in his frozen digits. Pulling one hand out, he peered at it, and briefly wondered which shade of blue that was exactly. He finally settled on powder blue, before plunging it back into the slightly warmer recesses of his coat. It didn't help that it was getting colder as darkness began to fall, and a chilling fog was starting to form.

Illya had been watching the house for two hours. A bigwig from Central was supposedly on his way, but there had been no sign of him yet. The Russian shivered, and then admonished himself for becoming soft, deciding instead to curse his partner for not returning his gloves. An insistent beeping from his communicator pulled him from his thoughts. Delving into his breast pocket, Illya could barely feel the pen-like device. Assembling it with numb fingers proved impossible. It slipped from his grip, and into the snow at his feet.

"Chyort!" He hissed, stooping down to retrieve it.

The sound of a pistol being cocked froze him in that position. Twisting his head, Illya saw Miles Manning, the owner of the house. He had two goons with him.

"Please straighten yourself up, Mr Kuryakin," Manning told him, gesturing with his pistol. "You'll catch your death out here. Why don't you come in where it's warm, and catch it there instead. You're just in time for my annual Christmas party, and I think you'll make the perfect gift for my special guest."

…

After the fourth time of trying to contact Illya, Napoleon Solo realised his plans for the evening were going out of the window. His partner was only meant to observe the house and report back on which member of THRUSH central was arriving. Once the name was known, a different set of agents would take over the assignment. Solo briefly entertained the thought that it might be simple equipment failure. As much as he hoped that was the case, he had to treat is as something suspicious.

"Call Slate and Dancer and ask them to meet me in Mr Waverly's office," he told Mary, who was manning the communications desk. "And keep trying Illya."

…

Illya had been held captive on many occasions, but this time he didn't actually mind so much. Okay, so he was chained to a wall, and was gagged, but he was finally warm. He also knew that rescue would probably be on the way, given that he hadn't been able to answer is communicator. What was really causing the Russian concern was where he had been chained.

It was a large, opulent dining room, which had been tastefully dressed for Christmas. A table for 12 was laid out for the coming feast, and milling around it were a few of the higher ranking members of THRUSH. Illya had been fastened to the wall, with his hands above him, at one end of the table; something which caused him to wonder why anyone would have shackles there in the first place. He was well known to everyone present and as such had to put up with their constant smug remarks, and occasional slaps to the face. Still, he wasn't afraid. The Russian had been in worse situations, and he was sure help would be on the way. The door at the far end of the room opened, and Miles Manning entered. He was followed by a man Illya knew of very well.

Sylvester Kingston was the current second-in-command for the whole of the THRUSH North American Section. He instantly recognised the helpless agent.

"Miles, my dear chap," he enthused. "When you said you had a Christmas gift for me, I couldn't have imagined it would be something this exciting."

It was only now that Illya began to feel apprehensive. He'd never come face to face with Kingston before, but he'd seen the results of his information extraction techniques. The man never dirtied his own hands with anything so base a torture, but was happy to give detailed instructions while someone else did it for him. He stood in front of the bound Russian and smiled warmly.

"How wonderful to finally meet you, Mr Kuryakin," Kingston said, almost congenially. "Your reputation is quite legendary amongst our ranks. I shall look forward to finding out how accurate the stories are."

The gag meant Illya couldn't reply, so he settled for an eye roll.

"Now, now young man, there's no need for that sort of behaviour."

…

Napoleon, Mark, and April approached the house which Illya had been watching. The fog was thick and the snow was heavy, so they could just about make out the glowing windows of the building. The three agents darted behind the trees as a figure emerged from the gloom. They kept out of sight until he had gone, allowing Mark time to notice the communicator half buried in the snow. He showed it to Napoleon, before shoving it into his pocket.

"I think it's probably safe to say Illya is in there," he said, indicating the house with his head.

"What's the plan?" April asked, trying not to think of what might be happening to her friend. "There are probably a lot of THRUSH in there."

"April, you are going in through a downstairs window near the front of the house," Napoleon told her. "Mark and I will go in through the back then split up once inside. Make sure your weapons are silenced so as not to disturb anyone if we have to remove obstacles. Use sleep darts. I would imagine that everyone important will be gathered in one place. If you come across a large group, hit them with a gas grenade."

"Won't that affect Illya too?" Mark queried.

"Yes," Solo replied, "but we need to take out a lot of people quickly. Once we've contained the situation, the back-up team will move in to mop up."

…

Illya was in pain. Part of him thought he should probably feel honoured that Sylvester Kingston was torturing him personally. One small mercy was that he had been moved from the dining room, to the much less opulent basement, so his interrogation was only being witnessed by Kingston, Manning and two guards.

He had been shackled to a steel chair, which was bolted to the floor, and he had been stripped from the waist up. It turned out that Manning had made himself a very well equipped interrogation room and Kingston was behaving like kid in a candy store.

"I have never really been a Christmas sort of person," he happily told Illya, between questions. "But Santa Claus has been very good to me this year. Did you have any plans for tomorrow?"

Kuryakin said nothing. The madman had asked him every question imaginable about U.N.C.L.E., but he hadn't given any sort answer to any of them. The only sounds he made were in response to the pain being inflicted. Kingston was currently favouring a modified cattle prod. It was shorter than a standard one, but packed a harder punch.

"So, Kuryakin, are you going to tell me anything I want to know, or do I move on to the more exciting toys?"

Once again, the Russian stayed silent. He stared straight ahead of him, refusing to make eye contact. Kingston pressed the cattle prod into Illya's stomach, eliciting from him a harsh scream. From a nearby corridor, April heard the scream and made her way towards it.

…...

Mark had made it to the dining room, only having to subdue one guard. He cracked the door open a little and saw the select gathering within. Lobbing in his grenade, he held the door closed in case any of them tried to escape the sleeping gas. After waiting the requisite time for the gas to dissipate, Mark entered the room. He drew his weapon, just in case anyone hadn't succumbed.

Napoleon, who had toured the upper floor and taken down four guards, joined Mark and nodded approvingly.

"There are some important people in here," he commented. "Illya isn't upstairs, or on this floor. He must be in the basement."

The two men quickly found the staircase and caught up with April, who was listening at a door.

"He's being tortured," she whispered them. "I was about to throw a grenade in, but I think it will be better if we dart them all."

Napoleon agreed and pressed his ear to the door. Their timing needed to perfect.

Inside the room, Kingston was growing bored. It seemed the stories of Kuryakin's tenacity were true.

"I would advise to open up, young man," he snarled at Illya. "The pain will stop if you do. All you have to do is ask, and it shall be given."

The Russian was tired, barely able to hold his head up anymore. Despite this, he managed to garner enough strength to spit into his tormentor's face. It earned him a hard slap, which drove him into unconsciousness.

"You will pay for that!"

Before Kingston could do anything, the door burst open. He had very little time to realise what was happening, as sleep took him.

…

Illya knew that when he opened his eyes, he would be greeted by the white walls of medical. It came as quite a surprise to find that he was actually in Napoleon's guest room. He pushed the blankets aside and attempted to get out of bed. He wasn't injured as such, but he was very weak. Unable to stand up unaided, he fell messily to the floor. Within seconds the bedroom door open and Napoleon rushed it. He helped his partner back into bed.

"It's about time you woke up."

"Why am I not in medical?"

"You were after we retrieved you," Solo explained. "But following the debriefing with Waverly, I decided to give medical a Christmas present. The last thing they needed on Christmas Day is a grumpy Russian. Speaking of which. . . "

Napoleon darted out of the room, and returned quickly with a gift wrapped package.

"Please tell me that isn't for me," Illya stated, pointing at the package. "I've asked you not to. I've haven't got you anything."

"Yes, it is for you and yes, I know you haven't. I don't buy gifts in order to receive them. Just open it."

"What is happening with the large THRUSH haul you do doubt bagged yourself?"

"Put it this way, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied, while urging Illya to unwrap his present. "We are going to have a lot of work to do in the next few weeks. We took quite a few influential members of the hierarchy. It also means we'll have to be on high alert for their inevitable retribution."

Finally, Illya tore the wrapping from his gift, and smiled broadly.

"How did you know?" he asked, holding up the bottle of Vodka.

The end.


End file.
